


Someone to Watch You Die

by Terror_AI



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Character Analysis, M/M, Metal Gear (1987) Quotes, Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:26:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terror_AI/pseuds/Terror_AI
Summary: He’s the wilted rose you keep in its vase remembering the days when it was vibrant and beautiful.You plead for its pretty little petals, no matter how piercing its thorns can be.You keep it out on the coffee table, not bothering to water it because you know it’ll only flake away with time.Your blue rose is tired of being told to look pretty.
Relationships: Otacon/Solid Snake
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Someone to Watch You Die

**Author's Note:**

> Recently reread the MGS4 novel and came to a few convoluted conclusions.

Deep grooves from the rounded curve of his nostrils to the low corners of his mouth are beginning to show, gray circles nestled underneath his cloudy pupils complementing their theme of exhaustion written across his grating features. He still grins at you like he has not a care in the world. 

“Hey, Snake, ” you mumble, and it's virtually habit how your eyes meet the floor. Even now, he makes you feel so small. 

His fingertips graze the warm edge of your bicep as you approach, coarse lips drawn back to show you that imperfect smile he reserves for your particularly rough days. You sit on the bed, across from him, and he's found a spot against the headboard, a practical distance; not what you want, but what he’ll give you. You’re anxious about getting too close these days. 

“I won’t bite, you know, ” he says. Shifting on stoic limbs despite the weight of his weariness, he reaches over and pats the bed beside him. He keeps his hands to himself. You’re sure he wouldn’t, if he knew how much you wished he would simply hold you, right up until the end. “Is it the smoke?” He makes you giggle when he lifts a sore shoulder, hiding his wince, and sniffs the bridge of his armpit. “Hope I don’t smell _too_ bad.” 

The wall is an appetizing sight. Optic whites drowned by the blurred, fat edges of murky pupils remind you of his age and you can't bear but to glance away. 

You look back at him the moment your eyes shimmer with dissociation; he doesn’t deserve to be anyone’s eyesore. 

You click your tongue. “No, Snake,” you brush off his nonchalance when he demeans himself with a playfully chiding tone. “You’re perfectly fine.”

The irony of your statement has the both of you bowing your heads in solemn humour, sighing through joyously exposed teeth. It feels like the most earnest thing you’ve done in days. 

He suddenly holds a fist over his lips when a resounding cough rumbles deep in his diaphragm. You crawl closer to his trembling torso, drawing hopeful circles in the fabric of his shirt against his back. 

“Hey…” you say, and it’s soft, agonizing. “You’re okay. Just let it pass.” 

_' You’ll live’_ begs with flooded tear ducts and folded hands to be uttered, whispered in his ear like a holy prayer in truth to alleviate the ache behind his drooping features, so soft that not god nor even you could hear it. It's something you would give your life to be true. 

He catches his breath, and his heavy eyelids hardly draw back enough for him to glance up at you. But he does, and you can’t help the way your brow creases in the middle. 

His sight, his reality, are not things to be spoken of in passing. The spirit that fights for purchase in this mortal coil rattles the bars of its cage and batters his ribs with every attempt to stay afloat. 

He’s frowning at you. 

Your ruminations show in the sheen of your eyes, the pale streaks flowing sparsely down your flushed cheeks. 

The rough pads of his fingertips curve against your jawline, and his hand brings in you close. You fold into the coldness of his palm, hardly recognizing those memories from days past that arise at the touch, back when his skin could retain its own warmth, when he clung to you, not with fear, but relentless, sickening adoration. 

He holds you close, letting your emotions flow as expanding petals in the dark fabric of his shirt. 

“Oh, _Snake…_ ” The rickety dam collapses on its weathered stilts. 

Jaded bones envelop you in an embrace. Ugly, rigid hands stained with liver spots palm your scalp and sort your brunette strands by the handful, more apt to soothe you than to speak. 

“We’re going to be okay… right?” 

You dare not ask above a whisper, nuzzling his sunken, hard chest, terrified that he may fuel your uncertainty. You feel him nod after a long beat.

“Even through all this, we’ve kept on, and you… you’ll come out alright, won’t you? In the end?”

He makes a low noise, and you feel it shake in his chest before it ever meets his sagged throat. 

_Right,_ the one thing he won’t admit. He doesn’t bother placating your distress with foolish banalities. 

An unhurried, ragged breath inflates his chest. His exhale tickles the back of your neck where you’re buried in his embrace. “I’m not so sure, Otacon.” 

You sniffle, enduring. “I wish you would stay with me and Sunny. No doctor visits. No physical therapy. No - _patriots._ Just… _us_ .” The surface of your face is hot, sticky; you smell the irritation of salt and sickly flush dampening his shirt. “I want all of you again, Snake, like it used to be.” Your voice cracks with a miserable, frightened sob. “I _miss_ you.” 

“I’m right here, Otacon,” he says, but he understands what you mean. His lips meet the crown of your head in a pitiful kiss, his frown so prevalent you could almost feel it’s wrinkled outline. “I know…” you hear him mumble, almost inaudible. “But you’re going to have to break it to Sunny.” 

A sob escapes you that you’re sure could be heard from the heavens. You dig in deeper, pressing your face flush against him and letting out the last year’s worth of reserved rumination, every thought you never aired, every concern you couldn’t push down. He holds you through them all, but you know he can’t reciprocate. 

“I - I know.” And that, too, you force downward, back into the wound it bled out of. “She said something about you yesterday,” you tell, and you hardly recognize your own torn voice. “We were cooking together and she stopped and looked up at me, and she said, _‘uncle Hal, why doesn’t Snake eat with us?”_

He chuckles at what you say, at the gruesome, comedic irony of it all, and you hate him for it; it’s something you feel beyond compelled to mirror. All that escapes you is a humorless crack in your frown. 

“She’s a smart cookie,” he lets out. “What’d you tell her?” 

“What I always tell her when she asks me about you,” you say. “That I just don’t know.” 

“Otacon…”

You glance down at your hands, finicking with an insistent hangnail. “I know. It’s cruel. But, I…” you press your eyelids tightly, fat beads of salt squeezing past the borders of your ducts. “You should be the one to tell her. I can’t do it myself. I know I won’t follow through when it comes down to it.” He exhales when you take his hand in yours. “She really believes in you, you know? It would break her heart to hear it from me. In the future I want her to be able to look back on this and… and know that you were always here. Whenever you could be.” 

His head lowers. “I _am_ here, Otacon.” 

“But she doesn’t always know that, Snake,” you say, squeezing his hand. “You have to let her know that it’s okay to be unsure right now. That things… might not turn out how she expects. She’s - we’re _both_ missing you.”

And you hate yourself for this; to speak of him like he isn’t in your hands, in your bed, his antiseptic scent of aftershave and the choking aroma of cigarettes still in your lungs. You prod his collapsed arteries bulging through his paper-thin skin, knowing his essence is faded, his everything watered down to bare bones and echoes of days when things were good. Of times when you were both content. But he’s still _here_. 

He looks alive, yet his existence evokes grief as grave as an uprooted cemetery. 

You’re sure he can hear these thoughts, on some level. Behind your eyes, there’s a longing for someone else, an insatiable sadness that manifests in a sinful craving for an easier life, a preferable partner; someone younger, easier. 

Peering back at him, you wish his steel-grays were softer, less severe. He can tell the hurt he’s caused has ripped from you whatever investment you once held. 

And yet you stay. And you always will. You'll stick with him until the end, and when he's gone, you'll remember everything he is now and what he once was.

Promptly, because the universe has a funny way of putting you on the spot, the pitter-patter of tiny feet trot up to your shared bedroom door. There’s deliberation in the time between then and when they finally knock. 

You answer first, knowing Snake’s scraping voice likely wouldn’t travel. “You can come in, Sunny.” 

Her tiny hands brave the gap between door and frame and are the first things you see before she enters, her beady, dinner-plate eyes a close second. She stands there with her hands tugging the hem of her oversized skirt, the one you always tell her she’ll grow into, staring up at you and only glancing sparingly at Snake, the way both of you have come to do so often as of late. 

You wave her over with a smile that doesn’t manage to pull at your eyes. 

She struggles to climb into the bed, eventually backing up between you and Snake like a doodlebug skidding through hard soil, the pudge of her fingers laced in her stockings to make sure they stay up as she wrestles with the covers and pillows. 

Snake’s hands are the first to meet her hair, teasing the silver strands while humming. You can hear phlegm catching in his throat. 

“What’s on your mind, doodlebug?” you ask, putting an arm around both her and Snake, careful of the bony edges that lie on his backside. 

She doesn't look at you, instead bobbing her toes through her sheer socks, toying with the various frilly edges of her outfit. She’s frowning. “I burnt my eggs again.” 

You suck in a quick breath. “Yeah, I figured that was it.” You could smell the aftermath from all the way down the hall. “But that’s alright. You’re learning aren’t you?” You poke her side. “You’ll get better with time. I promise.” 

“But I wa- want to be better n-now.” Her little hands form determined fists. She looks up at Snake. “Papa Snake, how come you don’t h-help me when I cook like uncle Hal?” 

He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I, uh…” 

“He just…” you start, recognizing a loss when it’s met. “We both know you’re capable of doing it on your own, that’s all. No one ever improves with hand-holding, Sunny.” You wag your finger at her. 

You wish you could find a salvageable metaphor in your own words, but you just can’t. His and your own faults are impervious to any silly comparisons, and you’ve never been one to actually take your own advice. 

Snake gives you a look, and the intent behind it is gone faster than you can get a read on it. Nevertheless, somehow, you understand. 

“Sunny,” you start, hating how her deep brown eyes look at you with such expectant glimmer. “Snake and I…” you clear your throat. “I think Snake has something to tell you.” 

She squints at you before turning to Snake. “What is it, papa S-Snake?” 

The earth does a full rotation before he manages to meet her eye, to open his mouth. You know he isn’t hesitating for his own comfort. 

She means the world to him, and he's aware that it’s a double-edged sword. 

As he’s always managed to do, even after so many years, he _surprises_ you. 

He begins with a story. Much to your own amazement. 

One of a lonely man in a magical kingdom visiting a sorcerer who tells him that his days are numbered. A grey horse, the color of tin, carrying him and his strange followers - an articulate, reserved peasant, their tiny elf who’s _horrible_ at brewing potions… 

A woman with the profession of a witch, rooms upon rooms of cauldrons too, yet beautiful raven hair, and a kind smile… 

Finally, a disease that ravages the kingdom’s blighted land, yet only affects the most valiant of hearts… 

You stare at him in awe, wondering just how, after all these decades of conflict and dismay, he still finds it in himself to be so solemn and sincere towards others. 

A breath catches in your throat when he explains how the lonely protagonist meets his end; in his bed, surrounded by his faithful travel companions. Even the witch who fled the story for her own odd, unknowable reasons stands with him in his final moments. 

It's a hopeful tale, it is. You hide your tears behind a trembling hand and hope that her age still makes her oblivious to such things. 

You would be wrong, however. As she casts a pleading, immediate look at you, you watch the pieces slip into place as it all finally clicks inside her head. 

Snake nods, ruffling her hair. “Told you,” he says, looking up at you and past the tears. “She’s a smart cookie. Too sharp for her own good.” 

You laugh hard enough that you can’t tell your tears from humor or sorrow. He is truly _unbearable._

She sits there for a moment, nestled safely between you two. You both give her the time she needs, her small pot-belly full of toddler fat and apple juice and overcooked eggs rising and falling evenly as she takes it all in, exhaling. She looks at you, eventually, and asks if it was all true. 

You expect a brave soul in a white coat to burst through the door with fresh MRIs and labs in hand to tell you that no, it _isn’t_ true. That you don’t have to break your child’s heart, because as it turns out, those tests were all _FUBAR_ , inconclusive. 

In reality, you bite down your juvenile fantasies. You nod slowly, your voice silk-soft. “I'm afraid it is, Sunny. We’ve tried taking a lot of different approaches with this but some things in life just can’t be avoided. Mortality is just… funny that way. It can be very unfair sometimes.” 

Her expression wavers for a moment, as if confused. She looks between you two and seems to finally understand, sighing. You would slap yourself silly if you could, for ever daring to think that a kid like _her_ would cry at a time like this. 

“Life is worth living, though,” Snake suddenly says, catching both you and Sunny unawares. “Even if it hurts you. Even if you hurt in it. You have to keep finding things to fight for and believe in. You have to be strong, especially when I’m gone.” 

That same bolt of electricity carrying the essence of awe on its shoulders strikes you through your middle, an agonizing pang of guilt coursing through your body behind it. You shake, practically bursting at the seams with an urge to ask him just where he gets off being so damn humble, yet so self-deprecating, after everything you’ve said. All the suffering you’ve endured. Why _he_ gets to get off scot-free, unscathed by his own flames. 

Everything burns in his wake, and he is the least affected, and you _envy_ that in him, and yet you loathe it just the same. 

You wish he hated himself the way he often makes you hate him. You want him to look in the mirror and wonder what’s worth sticking around for, as you tend to contemplate when he’s not paying attention, when his profile is especially sunken and bony, searching for what aspect of his person serves to keep you around, in spite of it all. 

You’re so desperate to help him see this through, and you don’t even know _why_ , because what has he ever given you that wasn’t a product of your own devising? Your imagination’s hopeful yearning for a glimpse of the lamb within the lion’s mane, desperate to see his softer side where it never seemed to be. 

Why does he carry himself in such a way that you never could? Why can’t you just let him go— 

“Well said, Snake,” you say, despite the tears, despite the snot, the shaking. The bitterness. 

Sunny turns to you and pokes the thin bridge of her nose with a little grin, the humor of one who knows more than their company. She motions to your face. 

You laugh, your gut twisting. “Hah. Thanks, doodlebug.” You push up your glasses, pretending you can see through the fog. It must be raining. 

You can’t keep your eyes away. That ugly, jaded face laden with unsightly features so grotesque, you feel like you hardly ever knew the man beneath, draw you back in. His smile is soft. He’s the wilted rose you keep in its vase remembering the days when it was vibrant, beautiful. Even though it practically begs to be thrown away, laid to rest. You plead for its pretty little petals, no matter how piercing its thorns can be. You keep it out on the coffee table not bothering to water it because you know it’ll only flake away with time. 

Your blue rose is tired of being told to look pretty. It is no longer okay with its death being postponed. 

He smiles at you, and you hate him for it. You hate his strength, his simultaneous weakness. None of it suffices. Nothing he does is what you expect. He’s always throwing you curveballs. You want him to suffer beside you in a way that _fits_ what he’s going through, what _you’re_ going through. 

He prevails despite his crippling disadvantages… He falls down right when the world needs him to be strong… He tells you not to cry when you read the lab reports, sit in for doctor visits... He couldn’t make this grim reveal a dark moment, either, and now not even Sunny will remember the pain of his final years. She’ll never understand why you cried or sent her to bed early when he was home, nor why you ignored him for days despite all of that earnest pining. 

He’s so _selfish._ And you — you’re the most excruciatingly selfish person you know for wanting him to be more like you. Emotional, feeling. You want him to hurt the way you do. You want his humbleness to crumble, his absentee self-pity to arise. You would beg him to just pick a side, if you could. 

If you thought it was justified in the _slightest_. 

But perspective shows you things you could not otherwise conclude on your own; Snake is not at fault here. 

You rub your eyes, and the raindrops don’t pelt your cheeks near as hard. “He’s right, doodle,” you say, your voice cracking pitifully like a teenage boy’s. “You’ve got to be strong without us.” You poke her belly playfully. “And you have to perfect that egg recipe, don’t you? You don’t have time to be fretting over us old men.” 

You swallow it all. She doesn’t need to hurt just because you don’t want to be alone in your own suffering. She’s allowed to feel the contentment you won’t give yourself. 

You pat her head, displacing Olga’s phenotype in its straight, pale beauty. “Snake won’t always be here and it’s important that you know that what he’s doing - it’s for the best. For all of us. Do you understand?” 

She nods once, so genuinely affirming. He doesn’t meet your eye when you look back at him, too busy smiling down at her. 

He’s proud of her. 

“He’ll be alright in the end, though. Your papa is a… a really strong guy.” You laugh, her puny giggle following. “A really stubborn one too.” 

Then, he does glance at you. He shrugs, despite the effort it takes to hoist his heavy limbs upward. “I keep you on your toes.” 

“Hah. That you do, Snake.” 

Sunny giggles up at the both of you as a toddler does when they want desperately to be involved in the adult talk, the inside-jokes. She pretends she gets it, hugging you both close. 

You hold her too, your hand around the both of them, wondering if she’ll still be laughing in a month when it’s just the two of you. Entirely alone. 

Snake chuckles a brief, raspy song. He’s never seemed more content than now, knowing he finally has two people to watch him die. You wonder if he, too, will be joyous when the curtains finally close, when the night is over. 

His contentment never sounded quite as painful as it does now.

**Author's Note:**

> There were a couple of quotes from MG1 in there, of course, because an old snake can't help but recall the glory days.
> 
> I'm allowed to HC at least one Sunny nickname on Hal's behalf, right?


End file.
